Guardia: A Novel of Renaissance Italy

GUARDIA

A Novel of Renaissance Italy

Michael Crews

Copyright © 2014

Michael Crews

All Rights Reserved

Preach what you will,
Florins are the best of kin:
Blood brothers and cousins true,
Father, mother, sons, and daughters too:
Kinfolk of the sort no one regrets,
Also horses, mules and beautiful dress.
The French and the Italians bow to them,
So do noblemen, knights, and learned men.
Florins clear your eyes and give you fires,
Turn to facts all your desires
And into all the world's vast possibilities.
So no man say, I'm not nobly born, if
He have not money. Let him say,
I was born like a mushroom, in obscurity and wind

-Cecco Angiolieri of Siena (c1260-c1312)

March, 1423

The peal of church bells announced the morning service of lauds amidst the pale morning light. Thick and somber clouds hung low over the Arno valley, obscuring the approach of the new day. Florence, city of rivers, artists, and bankers, awakened. Its four main gates, the Porta alla Croce and the Porta al Prato whose connecting roads split the city laterally, and the Porta Romana and Porta San Gallo that oversaw the ancient Via Romana, would soon yawn open. These portals, and the many smaller ones that punctuated the perimeter walls, would usher inwards the winding queues of carts that bore toward the city’s industrial center from the surrounding contado and from lands far away.

My boots crunched over paving stone as I made my way through one of the countless narrow vias that threaded the heart of the urban complex. Surrounding me were the ubiquitous brick and wooden-framed tenements that soared into the sky and buried the streets in perpetual shade. Cold drops of dew that had collected on the tile roofs fell rhythmically, splashing in the muck far below.

All my senses objected to the earliness of the hour and lack of sleep. A dull throbbing enveloped my head, twisting into my temples like screws, drilling into the back of my skull like a trepanner’s augur. I blinked in an effort to dispel the blurring in my eyes. I marched mechanically, the hem of my rust-colored cloak, the signature of the sbirro, already stained with moist grit.

At my side was Pietro, my partner and protégé. The two of us were agents of the commune’s justice council, the Otto di Guardia, the Eight of Ward, and by extension the Signoria, the communal government of Florence. My services to the council spanned three successful years, earning me the rank of investigator of the Bargello and command of a small squad of officers. Pietro, clever as he was, was still new to the force and would be paying his dues for some time to come. He was a good pupil, learning fast the ways and methods of the sbirri at a pace that was sometimes alarming.

Deep thoughts and a low buzzing in my ears drowned out the sounds of the world around me. “Capo, why the dour face? You look like you just climbed out of a grave.”

“Nothing that a little hot wine wouldn’t fix, I’m sure,” I said, cracking a forced smile. The truth was that my restless mind had kept me up all night. So fixated on my work had I become that it felt increasingly difficult to carry on without something constantly occupying my thoughts. It was an unhealthy lifestyle, this dependency, and it was an issue that I found worrisome in a man of my age.

“The Alvari, what will happen to them now that they’ve been caught?” Pietro was referring to the two brothers we had apprehended for their role in a recent wave of robberies in the Santa Croce district. A working class neighborhood with a well-deserved reputation for disorder, the cunning of these two stood out even against the chaotic backdrop of the borgo. Starting with a handful of simple robberies on the street, in short time they were targeting small stalls and shops. One merchant nearly lost his life after being stabbed in a robbery gone awry.

“The evidence against them is vast, so they'll likely be issued a hefty fine if they’re lucky. Otherwise, the punishment will be public whipping or branding. Hopefully for them they’ll get to keep all their limbs.” For all but the most serious offenses, fines and corporal punishment were typical for criminal convictions. Violent crimes and fraud would often land one in the much maligned Stinche prison, and crimes against the state warranted more drastic action ranging from political exile to execution or imprisonment at the Bargello.

During the investigation, fear of reprisal had dwindled the number of witnesses willing to come forth. For a small fee I had managed to persuade a chestnut vendor to do a bit of careful observation. It was with his watchful eyes, and a small inventory of peppercorn on loan from a spice merchant, that we managed to lure the suspects to us. My young subordinate seemed to have enjoyed himself fully despite being roughed up in their capture.

“I hope you didn’t spend your entire share of the commission at the tavern,” I said, prompting a laugh out of Pietro. We had capped the day off with a celebration at
La casa dei fichi
, The House of Figs, a tavern near the mercato that many of the city watch frequented. I took an early leave, but not before enjoying a couple rounds of spiced wine for my health. Pietro stayed and, sporting a few bruises from the scuffle, proved a hit with the serving girls.

“Of course not! Lucilla was happy to take care of me before I lost all my senses.” His conspiratorial smile betrayed the innocence of his tone. Already there were rumors of this young man, and he did seem to possess a charisma that others might consider hard to resist.

“I’m sure she did.”

The din of the mercato was soon audible, though at this hour it was still mostly empty. The only activity came from the vendors themselves and the early risers who were committed to beating the rush. Most were still at mass, and those that had obviously skipped enjoyed a public admonishment by the preachers already positioned for maximum exposure throughout the square. Pietro and I were here at the request of the comandatore, Jacopo Orsini, rather than at the Bargello where we often passed time in between investigations.

The capture of the Alvari had put Jacopo in good spirits that morning, and our success was rewarded with a light assignment to pass the day. Officially he had instructed Pietro and I to patrol the market, but he made it clear that he didn’t want to hear from us until the following day. His advice still echoed in my ears. “Watch, listen, just don’t break anything or get into any fights. None that you can’t win, at any rate.”

Now, Pietro and I stood in the square surrounded by delicious spices and roasting food. The square was beginning to fill up and with it built the roar of man, woman, and beast. All manner of merchandise was presented with lavish care, from clothing to jewel to fresh game. Beside us, a stall was filled with pens of clucking hens and doves and songbirds. Across the lane stood a fish vendor busily hacking and filleting his morning catch. And at the center of the piazza stood the
colonna della dovizia
, upon which the goddess of abundance looked down upon the entire scene.

It did not take long before the first argument of the morning broke out. Two women, one in her thirties and another slightly younger judging by her ample appearance, had erupted into a shouting match at a textile counter. Pietro looked at me quizzically. I shook my head. The younger woman spat at the feet of the elder, but before it escalated further members of the crowd separated the two and business carried on as usual.

“Silly ragazze.” Pietro groaned. “Every little trifle is a matter of life or death.”

We shared a chuckle. From further away there came another outburst, louder and simmering with bravado.

“Let's have a look over there.”

Following the source of the noise, we soon approached a large circle of men engaged in an animated debate. The men were riled about the ongoing dispute with Milan, a topic that was on everyone’s lips since the duke had become involved in the matter of Forlî.

Relations had been stable for years but tensions were mounting steadily. In a bid for more command over the region, Duke Filippo Maria Visconti had taken to imposing on his neighbors in Romagna and Veneto in an effort to rebuild his father’s empire. The only surprising part about this news was that it hadn’t happened sooner. He had been in power since 1412, the year that his older brother Gian Maria was assassinated. For all involved this seemed a fitting end to a man who had murdered his own mother for power eight years earlier.

If any believed that the younger Visconti brother could possibly be less brutish than the elder, they would have been sorely remiss. Visconti il piccolo went on to marry the widow of his brother’s former condottiere Facino Cane but would gain infamy by having her beheaded on dubious charges of adultery. Since then he’d seemed as eager as ever to prove himself a capable empire builder.

“Those Milanese trash have every intention of invading Romagna! Then what? Venice? Florence?”

A pudgy man with a condescending stare rebutted, “Don’t be an idiot! They don’t have the manpower or the funds. If they tried they’d be digging their own graves.”

This was met by an old, hawkish man, “We shouldn’t wait to be attacked, we need to hit them before they hit us!”

An artisan whose face was practically obscured by a curly black pelt of a beard scolded, “This talk of war is silly. Do we really want to throw ourselves into a petty fight that has nothing to do with us?”

“Says the Milanese!” someone shouted from the edge of the group.

“Hey, vaffanculo! I was born in Florence!” The artisan’s cheeks and forehead had become ruddy, his temper rising. His fingers were wrapped tight around the handle of a cudgel, which he nervously squeezed. Most men carried a club or weapon of some kind in public, making social disagreements volatile if not watched carefully.

I stepped in gently, easing myself amongst the group. Pietro stood at my back, cool and reserved. “Easy, gentlemen, easy. There’s no need to resort to name-calling or violence.” I spoke in a cordial fashion, polite but firm.

As soon as the men noticed my crimson cloak they backed down at once.

“Apologies, officer, we’re merely having a civil conversation.”

“Keep it at that, or go on about your business. There will be no fighting in the market.” They went their separate ways, although the disagreement would not be over anytime soon.

“What were they arguing about?”

“Politics. The lord of Forlì, Giorgio Ordelaffi, is dead and his son has been named successor. The problem is that his son is still a young child. Now there’s a split between the people and the boy’s mother, who is trying to assume the role of regent. This could be a big opportunity for Visconti, and he seems poised to snatch it up.”

“So will Florence get involved?”

“He hasn’t made his move yet, and it would be unwise to provoke anything we’re not prepared to see through. At this point it looks like the council is acting conservatively and holding off from any military engagement.”

“That's fine for now, but what if they change their mind?”

“Pietro, we live in times when war is a simple fact of life. Some say we live in end times, but I disagree. In any case, what use is it to worry about things over which we have no control? Why bother getting into a fight at a market over something as trivial as politics? I've found it best to try to steer clear of these sorts of disagreements anyway. It's much better for one's health.”

“Politics.” He spat the word as if it was an obscenity. "How tedious."

“I feel the same way.” The threat of war was one of life’s few constants, whether it come from Milan to the north or from Naples to the south. I still remembered when I was little the talk of the power-hungry Ladislaus of Naples. His attempt to conquer Tuscany was met with failure at our gates thanks to the general Braccio da Montone.

While mulling over memories from the past, I took notice of a young man who had appeared amongst the crowd. It wasn’t clear at first why he stood out until I observed his expression. His eyes were distant, fearful, and his expression blank. That is, until he saw me.

"What’s the trouble, boy?"

A wave of relief spread across the youth’s face as he came near. He cleared his throat. “Messeri, my name is Martin. I work for a man named Lucca in the woolworker’s quarter in the Ognissanti district. This morning, we…” he paused for a moment. “We found a body, a man in the river.”

“A body? Drowned?”

“I couldn't be sure, we didn't get close enough to find out. You should come quickly.”

What luck, I thought, aware of the perverse joy that I felt. It was a relief to have something new to keep me busy. I squinted as the sun had finally burned a hole through the silver clouds above.

Martin led us toward the river and the row of workshops that lined its northern bank. The acrid odor of smoke and various treating chemicals burned our nostrils as we penetrated the industrial quarter.

We were nearly at our destination when Martin said, “I came straight to the mercato as soon as we spotted him. Figured I would come across one of you men without much trouble.”

“Clever thinking," I said.

A moment later we arrived at Lucca’s workshop, a large stone building that sat squarely along the river’s edge near the convent of the Umiliati, the Chiesa di Ognissanti. Martin led us round to the back and onto a short landing. Below, resting at the water’s edge, was the crumpled form of a man whose clothes were stained dingy black.

A plump, well groomed man stepped out from the workshop. His jowls twitched beneath a narrow mustache. “Thank you for coming in such haste. I sent Martin for you as soon as I saw that,” he said, motioning sidelong at the body.

“You're Lucca then?” I asked.

“I am,” said the man. “This is my workshop. We are lavatori, my men clean and treat wool.”

The wool industry served a very special role in the economy of Florence. It was this trade more than any other that established the city as a mercantile center and fixed its place in the Mediterranean market. Its extensive network of contacts in other cities, from London to the Levant, laid the foundation for the banking empire that made Florence the rich cultural capital that it was now. By no coincidence the Arte di Lana, the guild of wool, was one of the most influential and storied guilds in the city.